


The Puzzle

by VicTheSpookyGoat



Category: Ghost in the Shell (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcoholism, Headcanon, Implied B/T, Navel-Gazing, Other, POV First Person, accidental stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicTheSpookyGoat/pseuds/VicTheSpookyGoat
Summary: Ishikawa loves puzzles, but he's about to solve this one the hard way.Just a short fic. Rated for language. Ishikawa's POV.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The Puzzle

I first noticed her on a Wednesday night at my regular bar, and I know I wasn’t the only one. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of roughnecks and old timers, sitting at a table in the back corner of the bar, nursing a cocktail and reading a book, of all things. Who still reads physical books, and in a bar of all places?

Then I noticed her again, the next week, still reading. And the next week after that, same thing. I told myself that my interest was just curiosity; a puzzle to be solved, and nothing more. That’s what I do for a living, I told myself: solve puzzles. I should have just hacked the bar’s security feed and run her picture through the Net for some explanation for her being there, distracting me, but something about her made me want to figure it out the hard way.

The books she brought with her looked academic. Theory of something-ethics; I couldn’t get a clear view of the full titles. Her Oxford shoes and tweed jacket looked like they belonged in the last century. A professor, maybe? This wasn’t exactly the kind of place I’d expect to find a professor, though. Her drink of choice seemed to be a gin and tonic, and she smoked menthol cigarettes, the nice kind. There was something self-assured about her, in the way she ordered her drinks in an accent I couldn’t quite place and effortlessly ignored everything but whatever she was reading. It reminded me a bit of the Major, actually, but with fewer sharp edges. 

I tried not to notice that she was also stunning, with tawny skin and full lips, or that her dark curls framed her high cheekbones just so. Probably not Japanese, but it’s hard to tell from just a look these days. Her face looked organic, though, and the lenses in her cat eye glasses clearly weren’t for show, and they certainly did add to the overall look that definitely wasn’t making my mouth go a little dry every time I snuck a peek. No ring. Not young enough to make me feel like a dirty old man for looking, but young enough looking to make me feel old.

It’s been almost five years since I looked at a woman who wasn’t my CO with at least mild suspicion, and that particular emotion wasn’t completely absent from my mind while I observed this one. I went on exactly three dates after my wife left me, exactly 7 months after I got home from the Non-Nuclear Fourth World War, taking with her the dog, and my truck,  _ and _ half my pension. I didn’t blame her at the time, though, and I still couldn’t. 

I read stories about veterans of the original Vietnam War coming back and snapping, crawling into a bottle, beating their wives, or shooting up post offices. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”, shrinks would call it, once they figured out that “War is Hell” isn’t just a stupid saying. PTSD. I was just supposed to be a civilian contractor, just supposed to hack drones from the safety of a base, but then they sent me to Mexico and ‘supposed to’ went out the window. They’d slapped me with those four letters when they did my discharge exam, and while I never raised a hand to my wife or shot anybody I wasn’t ordered to, I’d be lying if I said the war hadn’t turned me into a miserable bastard. 

After she left, I quit drinking for a while, and took up tai chi and comic books, and that seemed to help. The Major recruited me into Section 9 a year after the divorce was finalized, and immediately ordered me to “stop moping and get back on the damn horse.” Those dates didn't really go anywhere, though, and after that I stopped trying. I still miss that truck.

On the Thursday of the fourth week, the Puzzle finally caught me spying on her. I’d been careless and her eyes caught mine as she emerged from her book to light a cigarette. I tried to pretend I was studying some dingy photo on the wall above her table, but when I snuck another glance, under the pretext of signaling to the bartender for another round, she was watching me with an unreadable expression. I could have sworn there was a hint of a smile as she brought her cigarette up to those full lips and took a long drag. Probably just a trick of the light. I managed another look when the bartender returned with my Jameson. She had returned to her book, though, and I returned to my whiskey. The Puzzle, one; Ishikawa, zero.

***

This week, when she isn’t there, I don’t know what to feel. Disappointment? Relief? The Puzzle had been tormenting me with that smile-that-probably-wasn’t-a-smile for eight days straight, and I was starting to think I was losing my mind. Maybe the shrinks were right after all. Or maybe I was just a delusional old drunk reading way too much into a glance from a woman who had to be half my age.

The Major and Batou had come out with me out tonight, and I’m secretly glad for the distraction of their company. I’d been a codger about accepting their invitation, of course, but the Major had insisted. No one in Section 9 is very good at admitting when they’re lonely, and we all put on our own acts. Even easy going old Ishikawa is expected to put up at least a little bit of a fight, even if it’s just for show and even if that show is just for my own benefit.

Three rounds in, I realize that my companions have their alcohol processors turned off and that all three of us are leaning on the edge of tipsy, heading steadily toward drunk. It had been a long week. I wonder briefly, with a hint of something that feels suspiciously like jealousy, if this would be one of those rare nights when those two would get so drunk they couldn’t see straight and sneak off to fuck each other senseless at one safehouse or another. They thought none of us noticed, and none of us had the balls to relieve them of that notion. It was better to just let the poor bastards have it, anyway. Everyone saw it, except them. At least I won’t be the only one stumbling out of here tonight.

Sometime between the fourth and fifth round, a blast of cold air on the back of my neck pulls my attention away from a conversation that had somehow wound its way to bitching about the kickback on the new Seburos. I look up and catch a reflection in the mirror behind the bar that makes my heart jump up and kick me in the teeth. It’s the Puzzle and she catches me staring. Again. I pretend to look for my cigarettes for the minute it should take for her to get to her usual table, but my unintentional tormentor wasn’t going to give me any respite tonight, apparently, and took a seat at the bar two stools down from the Major instead. I swear under my breath and switch to whiskey.

By round seven, my face is feeling very warm and my nerves have faded into a very nice haze. Batou has reached that state of drunkenness where everyone’s name is “Buddy”, and the Major’s let her guard down enough to let her hand linger on Batou’s knee. Good for them. I let my eyes wander past Batou and the Major, to the Puzzle. I don’t know if it was the lighting, the booze, or just the years of self-imposed abstinence, but damn if she doesn’t look sexy, one hand idly circling the rim of her glass, the other lifting a cigarette to those plump lips. No book tonight. I wonder what she smells like...

“So are you going to keep staring all night, or are you going to grow a pair and go talk to her?” Damn. Even drunk, Queen Kong doesn’t miss a trick.

Batou, sensing a rare opportunity to get under my skin, gestures to the corner of my mustache. “You got a little bit of drool riiight there…”

“I hate you both.” I swat Batou’s hand away, too annoyed, or maybe just too drunk, to fake a smile.

“Aw, don’t be like that, buddy,” the big cyborg continues, “I think it’s cute, our little Ishikawa with big ol’ hearts in his eyes...”

“I’ll remember that the next time I catch you sniffing the Major’s panties,” I mutter into my drink. If Batou hears me, he doesn’t let it deter him. He smelled blood in the water.

“So what’s her name?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“You’re a terrible liar when you’re drunk, buddy.”

“And you’re a dick when you’re drunk,  _ buddy _ .”

“Leave him alone, Batou,” the Major interjects, either out of pity for an old man or a desire to not let her teammates’ squabbling ruin a perfectly good night out. “Ishikawa, as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to go talk to that woman.” Definitely not pity, then.

“She’s probably a plant.” Partly an excuse, but also not outside the realm of possibility.

“She’s not.” The Major’s tone doesn’t leave room for argument and I don’t bother asking how she could be so sure. There’s only one person allowed to disobey an order from the Major even - hell,  _ especially -  _ when she’s had this much to drink, and he’s currently giving me a shit-eating grin that I would love to smack off his ugly mug. Instead, I resign myself to my fate, stamp out my cigarette, take a quick swig for luck, or courage, or both, and stand. 

I get exactly three steps before those four strong beers and three stronger whiskeys fully hit me and the world starts spinning and my foot catches on the leg of a barstool and I’m face down on a floor that hadn’t been properly cleaned in who knows how many years. Fuck, my head hurts. Must’ve hit something on the way down. Shouldn’t have switched to whiskey...

“Oh my god, are you ok!” An unfamiliar voice, an accent I can’t quite place, then a gentle hand on my shoulder, rolling me over. The world goes blurry, then dark, then blurry again. The hand is patting my cheek now. “Hey, wake up.”

My vision comes back into focus, sort of, and I realize that I’m staring up into the most beautiful hazel eyes I have ever seen. All six of them. “Hi…”

Definitely shouldn’t have switched to whiskey.

“Hi. How many fingers am I holding up?” The fingers in question waver and blur, and I’m pretty sure people don’t have 8 fingers on one hand. The Puzzle frowns. “Ok, come on, time to get up.” 

She slides a hand under my shoulder and pulls me up into a sitting position. My stomach does a backflip. 

“Hey big guy - yeah,  _ you _ \- get over here and help me with your friend.” Damn, she did remind me of the Major. “If he’s gonna vomit, it’s not gonna be on me.”

New hands, much bigger and a lot rougher, haul me to my feet. That shit-eating grin again. “Don’t even think about it. I just had this coat dry cleaned.”

“I hate you… so much…”

“I know, buddy, I know.” Batou gives me a slap on the back that almost sends me reeling, but the Puzzle catches me. She smells like jasmine. My stomach does a triple axle and she pushes me back to the asshole.

“He needs to go to the ER. I think he’s concussed.”

“I’m fine…” It’s a lie, on several levels.

“He’s fiiine. He’s just drunk, aren’t you, buddy?”

“You’re both drunk, and he’s not fine.” She’s pointing to the door now. “I’ll drive him. My car’s the silver one on the corner.” She clicks a key fob. “It’s unlocked. Do  _ not  _ let him throw up on the upholstery.”

I half expect Batou to throw me over his shoulder, but he doesn’t, and is less of a jerk as he helps me out to the Puzzle’s car, but that kindness is short lived. The Major and the Puzzle stay behind to pay the tabs, and once he has me buckled into the passenger seat of the Puzzle’s coup, he takes another jab.

“Sorry, buddy, looks like Lady Luck wasn’t on your side tonight.”

“That’s ok, buddy. Looks like she’s not on yours either.” I’ll probably pay for that later, if he remembers, but it’s worth seeing that smug face go slack jawed as Batou follows my gaze to the Major. She’s walking toward us, chatting very amiably with the Puzzle, and she’s clearly turned her alcohol processor on.

***

Four and a half hours later - 15 minutes to drive to the hospital, including one stop by a park for me to vomit  _ not  _ on her upholstery, two hours in the waiting room, another hour and 45 minutes in the examination room waiting for the doctor, 20 minutes on the exam and CT combined, and 10 minutes to check out - I’ve sobered up considerably, given a very sheepish apology, and learned that the Puzzle’s name is Vivienne. 

Vivienne is a visiting lecturer in cybernetic-bioethics for Section 2, on sabbatical from a university in Fukuoka. She’s from Louisiana originally - New Orleans, she emphasizes - but defected to Japan during the last war for reasons that she doesn’t offer and I don’t ask. She had dated the Major for seven months before, in her words, “an unstoppable force met an immovable object and a shit storm ensued.” They somehow stayed friends afterward, which is a lot more than I can say for most of the Major’s exes that I know about. The Major had told her about the bar, and about me, apparently. I’m afraid to ask how much. We exchange theories about the future of cybernetics; the potentials for disease eradication, and the challenges it poses for cyber warfare. For some stupid reason, I tell her about my ex-wife and the war and the three dates that didn’t go anywhere. She's just a good listener, I guess.

Vivienne’s not interested, but it’s nothing personal of course, she tells me as she drives me back to my car. She thinks I’m very charming when I’m not face-down in a filthy dive bar. Just not her type. I tell her I get it, and we have to laugh. Then she tells me that I’m lonely and maybe I shouldn’t drink so much, and I have to agree. She asks if I want some company at the bar that isn’t my asshole coworkers. I say sure. 

The next day, after one hell of a hangover and one hospital bill that Section 9 definitely isn’t going to cover, I quit drinking for a while. I still find time to hang out at the old bar, though, just for the company, and that seems to help.


End file.
